


Of Sweat and Sunburns

by Legendaerie



Series: Spell It Out [6]
Category: Red vs Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, F/M, Fluff, Hufflepuff!York, Muggle-born, Slytherin!Carolina, mild culture shock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-05-03 21:23:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14577951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Legendaerie/pseuds/Legendaerie
Summary: Carolina visits York at his house. Unexpectedly.





	Of Sweat and Sunburns

**Author's Note:**

> the weather is hot for two (2) days and i gotta write something involve dumb sweaty boys, i guess. i blame being raised rural for liking guys with bad tans that smell like grass and sunshine.

 

The rift that formed between herself and York lasts longer than expected. At first, Carolina had relished the silence, the fact that finally she’s said something that’s impacted him enough he can’t laugh it off. She’d prided herself of warning him off one of the darker sides of the magical world, that of arranged pureblood marriages, and of keeping any rumors about their relationship in check. But when one of the fifth-year Gryffindors stalks up to her after Herbology a week later, Carolina starts to feel uneasy.

“What’s going on with him?” Connie snaps, and her voice reminds Carolina of the devil’s snare she’s just been propagating.

“Who,” she asks flatly, ready to brush the junior student aside.

But Connie blocks her progress. “York.”

Carolina tenses. Several heads turn in her direction, including North’s. “What about him?”

“South says that Kaikaina says that her brother says--”

“Oh, god, the Gryfflepuff rumor mill,” mutters Church as he walks past.

“--York got a letter from home yesterday, and he looked upset when he got it. No one else can get a word out of him.” Connie’s expression slides towards panic. “He didn’t tell you?”

Carolina splutters. “Why-- why would he tell me? If it’s something to do with his mom, then-- I’m not a Muggle, I can’t help him with that.”

Connie all but gapes at her, then rolls her head back in a dramatic, voiced sigh. “Ohhhhh, Merlin,” she wheezes. “I don’t have time for this.”

“Time for what,” Carolina snaps, but the Gryffindor is already storming away, waving her arms dramatically. “Time for _what_?” and her voice is more of a shriek, but the lesson is starting and she has to come back to earth with a huff.

The next day, York isn’t at any of his classes. Or the next, or the next, or the next.

 

* * *

 

She’s not sneaking out. She’s almost old enough to leave on her own, they’ve got plenty of Floo powder, and the house elves had been willing to give her directions when she explained what was happening. She’s even taking him homework. No one will blame her.

But as soon as Carolina steps out of the sleepy little magical bookstore and starts walking in the direction of York’s house, she wishes she’d remembered not to wear so many layers. Her robes are sweltering within minutes - she takes off the cloak and ties it around her waist, but it doesn’t do much good.

Cars rush past on the road, and one honks at her; the men inside shout something at her, and her hand snaps to her wand but they’re gone too fast. Her heart is racing, face red as her hair and sweat is dripping down her back but she keeps walking with her chin held high.

It takes her almost an hour to find the place, counting numbers on houses over and over. She's too young to cast magic outside of school, still has the Trace, so it takes her longer than she should have. But at last she knocks on the little red door of 1128 Brady Ave, and waits.

“Hold on,” calls the voice of a woman, and after a minute the door to the tiny one-story house opens with a rush of cool, welcome air. “Can I help you?”

She’s younger than Carolina expected, with faint smile lines and a suggestion of crow’s feet, plus a few grey hairs at her temple. Simply dressed in colorful Muggle clothes, including a loose shirt and a long skirt made of silky, colorful patches. Underneath sticks out a white plaster boot, and she leans on two tall sticks with pads at the top. Carolina remembers their function but not their name.

“Are you York’s mother? I'm Carolina Church, his classmate.”

The reaction is pleased, but not exactly how Carolina expected.

“Oh! Oh, I know you!” Of course-- “you’re his girlfriend, right?”

“His-- his what?” she squeals, and has to fan herself as her blush makes her dizzy.

“Oh, I'm so sorry! Come inside, come inside!”

Carolina stumbles her way into a tiny kitchen that's just as bright and mismatched as York’s mother’s skirt, finds herself in a chair with her outer tone draped on the back, and a glass of warm water in her hand.

“Drink this, slowly. It's a hot day. The cold would give you a stomach ache.”

Carolina gets about half the glass down in one go before she stops for breath. “I'm not-- his girlfriend.”

“Oh. Of course not, I'm sorry.” She waves away the offending assumption. “He just talks about you a lot. How sweet of you to come visit.”

“I figured someone should bring him some homework if he’s going to be gone,” Carolina says after another sip. She’s itching to take off her sweater, but sure she’s soaked her blouse with sweat. Compromises by loosening her tie. “Where is he?”

“He went to the corner store for me. He should be back in a few minutes.” York’s mother settles into the chair on the other side of the little kitchen table with a grown, booted leg held stiffly in front of her.“It’s hard to drive with my leg like this.”

“Ah,” Carolina says, with absolutely no idea what she means. She takes another sip of water to stall for time.

“Did your parents drive you here? I didn't hear a car pull up.”

“No, I used the Floo Network. There's a bookstore connected nearby. I walked from there.”

York’s mother sits up. “You walked? From town? Goodness. You must have really wanted to come here.”

Carolina starts to answer but the click of the front door around the corner distracts her. There's a rustle, a young man’s sigh, and a thud as the door closes behind him. She sits up at once, fixes her skirt, her bangs. All the calm, the cool she had gathered in the little kitchen is gone.

“Hey, Mom,” and York rounds the corner in Muggle clothes that bare his sunburned shoulders, his calves. She’s on his blind side and he walks right past her, yanks open the refrigerator and starts stocking it with groceries. There’s sweat on the back of his neck. Something about it makes her mouth dry, but she’s out of water. “Milk was on sale so I got you half a gaaah…”

He turns, sees her, and almost drops a carton of eggs. This flatters her, too, but not right now. She’s too busy feeling overdressed and out of her element, hackles rising in time with her chin.

“Carolina,” the first time he’s spoken her name in two full weeks, and it's with the same weight as some of the charms they practice in class. “Hey. Is-- everything okay? Why’re you here?”

All of her concern for him, all of her self conscious distraction and need for water has vanished. Her headache does nothing to help her temper, and she stands up.

“I brought you your homework,” and the room spins a little at the edges, breaking off her speech. It takes her a moment to realize that York has caught her upper arm, his face etched with open concern, and her tirade stumbles further. “You-- I walked here from Peperomia’s Poetry and--”

“In your robes?” he asks, incredulous. He shoots a glance over her shoulder. “Uh. I left my spell book in my room, I'll be right back.”

York’s mother sighs. Another glass appears at her elbow - how the woman filled and carried it with that limp Carolina will never know - and she hobbles to the fridge. Stoops to put away a couple last things then closes it and continues on her way.

“It was nice to meet you. My name is Eliza, by the way.” And the smile she throws over her shoulder is so York it takes Carolina’s breath away.

Another minute and her son reappears, heavy tomes in his arms and a frown on his face. His wand is clenched between his teeth.

“You're disgusting,” she informs him.

“Like you smell that nice yourself,” he retorts, dropping the books on the table and taking the seat closest to her, flipping through the first one. It's not one of their standard school books, either; a more in depth tome on healing magic, she guesses by the cover. “Sit tight. There’s a curr for heatstroke in here, I know it.”

“You know you’ve got the Trace on you,” she notes.

“Potions aren't covered,” he mutters with the kind of confidence that implies he’s done this before. “So long as they’re minor. _”_

“Such a rule breaker,” she tuts, taking another sip of water. He doesn't take the bait.

Not for the first time, she's starting to feel guilty for their fight. This baffles her; everything she said was complexly true and honest, and she’d even expressed frustration at blood purity politics. They should have been able to joke about her eventual, boring husband. They should have gotten past this. But they haven’t, and this is the first time they’ve spent any length of time together in two weeks.

York seems to find the potion he needs and gets up to start pulling things down from the cabinets. Little bottles and vials of magical ingredients start to pile up on the kitchen counter, intermingled with more Muggle ingredients like plain table salt, pepper, white vinegar and vegetable oil.

She nurses her water and watches him work in a sweaty, miserable silence. Halfway through she takes off her sweater, shirt lifting halfway up her stomach as she pulls it off, but when her head emerges York still has his back to her. If he took a peek he was quick about it. She's not sure how to feel about it either way.

“Anyone can make a chamomile tea,” York explains, “and add some extra herbs to it. Even a Muggle. Cooking is already so much like potion-brewing anyway, so long as you're not using regulated ingredients or banned potions they don't really care.”

Carolina watches him grind herbs in a mortar and pestle, dump them into a pot of water on the stove and add drops of various herbal-scented extracts. The ease at which he brews in a tiny, sticky Muggle kitchen almost makes her angry.

“That's how you're so good at potions? Because you cook?”

He shrugs. Carolina is tempted to ball up her sweater and throw it at him, but abstains, crossing her sweaty legs and wishing she’d worn tights instead of knee socks. A glance at the clock reminds her that she should be heading out soon, and that she's already wasted an hour and fifteen minutes on this boy who won't even look at her as he stirs a potion on the stove. And when did his shoulders get so broad?

“All right, it's done.” York pours the still warm potion into a mug with cow spots and a handle shaped like a rope, slides it across the table at her.

He takes her curious sniff for mistrust.

“I’d never hurt you,” he murmurs, “not on purpose.”

“I know. Just curious what's in this.”

“Feverfew, iceberry, aam panna, wintergreen; mostly just herbs, but with some bottled borealis to accelerate the cooling effect.”

The wave of relief is like a cold shower. Carolina sighs, shivers, then feels her body settle into a normal temperature. When she opens her eyes again, she feels more like herself than she has in days. And York is by her side, where he belongs.

Wait, where did that thought come from?

“How many times have you used healing potions at home?” Carolina asks.

York’s grin is crooked and a little bitter. “Enough that I could replicate the Ministry’s stationary from all the warnings.”

“They probably won't let you heal her leg, though, will they?”

The smile fades, leaving only the weary resignation. “No. They won't.”

Carolina takes another sip to drain the potion. She means to cheer him up with the reminder that he won't have to take care of his mother for too much longer, but all that comes out is: “I missed you.”

York blinks. A hint of the smile comes back. “Really?”

She kicks him lightly in the shin. “Of course I did. You vanished, and it was all super dramatic and annoying. Glad to know you're okay.”

His eyes track up her bare legs, to her rumpled blouse that's clammy with sweat, to her face. There's an intensity there she doesn't see too often, and it makes her hot all over again.

“Sorry to worry you,” he murmurs, eyes dark. Does he know he’s leaning in, or is she leaning forward? “And that you walked all the way out here for me.”

There's sunburn on his cheeks, too, his nose. “If I get a sunburn, I want you to make me a potion for that, too, but you have to test it on yourself first.”

Another grin. “Will do. Probably be a salve, though.”

Something about the setting makes her bold, makes rest her hand in her chin, give him a wicked grin of her own. “I'll make you apply it, then.”

York swallows, mismatched eyes dark and fixed on her face, and he--

_THUD!_

Both of them jump, but York gets to his feet first, blocking Carolina with his body as she whips out her wand. There a shrill noise from the front door.

“Iota?” she asks, stepping around York to open the door. Sure enough, her screech owl is sitting on the tacky little welcome mat, a Howler in her beak. Carolina goes pale.

“What happened?”

“I guess the school found out I snuck out,” she whispers, taking the letter gingerly from her bird’s beak.

York follows her as she comes back inside, stopping short in the doorway as she sits at the table to open the Howler. Better to get it over with now, inside, where it won't cause a Muggle panic. “Wait, you snuck out?”

The rest of his words are drowned with the deafening shout of the head of Gryffindor and the Groundskeeper, Sarge.

“ _WHAT_ IN _HELLFIRE_ AND _TARNATION_ \--”


End file.
